


Connections

by Neyah444



Series: Writing Cafe [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Scars, Synchronicity, connection, stigma - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:57:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyah444/pseuds/Neyah444
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are connections that cannot be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connections

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Writing Cafe](http://writingcafe.livejournal.com/) Community prompt: Synchronicity.

She wasn’t in a very talkative mood that day. We were sitting in the inner room of the empty teahouse, everything had been silent for hours. No chattering schoolgirls, no busy businessmen on their phones, just a soothing new age music in the background. We were the only guests there. A typical Saturday noon.

As she was reaching for her cup I looked at her fingers. I had always thought that she wasn’t the picture of femininity. With her short dreadlocks with wooden beads in it, round face and big, blue, childish eyes that always sparkled when some crazy idea occurred to her. She was tall, with gangly limbs and big feet, with even bigger, men’s sized shoes. But the way she held her teacup was nothing but elegant. Her long, slender fingers curling around it lovingly, with her little finger just slightly sticking out that looked really posh.

My gaze wandered to her slim, white wrist where a scar marred her perfect skin.

“Where did you get that?” I asked curiously.

“Oh, that? I was eight and I wanted to climb over the fence in the back of our garden.”

“Was is a barbed-wire fence?” I joked, because it looked like it had been a nasty wound once.

“No, not really.” She laughed and sat down her cup on its liner. “But there was a nail at the top which I didn’t see.”

“I had a run-in with a nail too, when I was eight.” I remarked offhandedly. “It’s on my right foot, right in the middle of my instep.” I had no idea she was interested.

She looked under the table and even in the poor light of the teahouse the scar was visible between the two straps of my sandals.

“When was this?” She looked in my eyes with an unreadable expression that made me just a little bit uncomfortable.

“In the summer, it was in July, I think. I was on a holiday at the lake with my mom. I just had a swim when I felt a terrible pain in my foot for a moment and decided to stay out of the water for the day. When I went back everyone was staring, and when I looked down I saw a tremendous amount of blood oozing out of it. To be honest I was more intrigued by the sight than anything, it didn’t even hurt.”

Her eyes sparkled when I finished my story. I knew we were the same age, that’s why she asked when this had happened.

“Same here. It happened about mid-July.” She smiled impishly. “Like a stigma. We’ve been marked.”

I didn’t know what to say so I only smiled at her. I didn’t know what to think about coincidences like this. She took another sip from her tea and continued.

“You know what my first thought was when I first saw you? I thought, ’oh my dear God, what an outfit!’” she laughed. “’But there is just something about her. I have to get to know her.’ And I did.”

I only stared at her with my mouth hanging open. I hadn’t known. I had had absolutely no idea she had felt it the way I had.

“It felt like I had known you from somewhere.” she continued. “Probably from another life. Like I’ve known you forever.”

The feeling had been mutual. She wasn’t the type I would normally engage in conversation casually, rather someone I would avoid. But now that we talked about it, I remembered.

Like a lost sibling or a lover that had drowned mysteriously in the River Nile. Not her, but a strong man, a soldier commanding thousands with an iron fist, who had denied every happiness of himself but the victory of battle.

“But why?” I asked instinctively, thinking she’d understand the question when even I had trouble understanding. “Why are you a girl?”

“Because of you.” she smiled and averted her eyes. “Sucks, isn’t it?”

I didn’t think it did, but the irony was not lost on me.

It’s been ten years since I had last seen her, but I still feel to this day the untearable, subtle navel-string that binds us. Even with worlds apart, a sudden change in my mood tells me I’m not alone, if she’s happy or sad. I’m sure our hair is still the same colour and style, like it happened so many times in the past that we got the same haircut spontaneously. I know I’m stepping to the rhythm of a song I can’t hear. There are connections that cannot be broken, I know that someday we’ll meet again. Probably in another life.


End file.
